SmallTownDuke

by Forbes, Sara

  Are the stories true that they strip off naked? No, I’ll bet that’s the gossip mill twisting things out of all proportion.

  But it would be nice to watch…

  I’m too fascinated by Seamus to concentrate on anyone else. He’s standing there, tall, proud, strong, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows showing off his forearms. The firelight makes his hair and beard glow red and it catches the planes of his face—the prominent brow and cheekbones, the steadfast jaw. My heart is thumping way too fast.

  I miss him. I want him. He doesn’t have to take off his shirt, but I wish he would.

  I would do anything to be able to go over there and smooth my hands up his back, over his broad shoulders, down his hard, tapering torso...

  I fan myself with a large fern. This is what my life has come to. Watching a man from the shadows, not only that, but lusting after him. I’m the worst kind of voyeur. I’m getting out of here.

  The fire blazes on. Honestly, one of these years, the whole forest will burn down and then Niall will be happy.

  Then Niall takes the straw man and woman and flings them higher onto the pile. The flames rise high and black smoke gusts out. It only takes a few seconds for the dry straw to disintegrate on both figures. The clothes take longer, sending a pungent smell of burnt cotton and rubber into the air.

  I’m watching Seamus as this ritualistic burning of Danny and me comes to its climax. He’s standing further back, observing. It’s comforting that he’s not reveling in it. I shake my head. The whole thing is frankly stupid. Just as Danny said.

  Enda has broken off from the group and is lurking around the side of the fire nearest to me. He’s staring into the flames intently as if trying to discover the answers to life in there.

  There’s a rickety construction of sticks jutting out above his head and just as I’m thinking it wouldn’t be good if that part collapsed, that’s exactly what happens. The top of the fire over shifts to the right and some burning branches topple to the ground. To my horror, one of them catches Enda’s blazer on the back. A blue flame goes up. There’s a horrible second where he just doesn’t realize it, and then he does, jerking himself around and opening his mouth in a silent scream. He runs away from the fire, and trips on something in the undergrowth.

  Holy shit…

  I scramble to my feet, pull up my blanket and sprint toward him faster than I’ve ever run in my life.

  22

  SEAMUS

  Something makes me turn around. Then I watch in horror as I see Enda thrashing on the ground with his back on flames. Out of nowhere, a figure dashes toward him with a blanket, throwing it on top of him, smothering the flames. There’s a heart- rendering cry from Enda and then silence.

  The figure—a svelte woman—huddles over him, still patting out the flames that have sprung up around him.

  Who the fuck is that?

  Oh my God, it’s Cliona!

  My father, beside me, is transfixed. I come to my senses and race to them, my family following close behind. I stare at Enda’s lifeless form on the ground, his pale face, and the smoke that’s still rising from his back.

  “Get an ambulance,” she screams when she looks up and sees me. “You—” She leaps to her feet and roughly pushes Niall. “Get water, ice, anything. The drinks cooler! Hurry!”

  She picks away hot clothing from Enda’s back while Niall dashes for the cooler and my fingers scramble to dial the emergency services.

  Cliona retreats so Niall can pour the ice water from the drinks cooler all over Enda’s back. There’s a vicious hiss and steam rises. We all wince as we realize how hot his body must be for that to happen.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  “Don’t let him die!” my father wails.

  Cliona turns Enda and begins mouth-to-mouth. Has Enda inhaled smoke? Are the burns so serious that he had a heart attack? I don’t know enough about first-aid to know how this might have killed him. Besides, my job here is to direct emergency services, so I focus on that. They promise to come quickly.

  “What else can we do?” I ask Cliona in desperation when she takes a break. “Is he breathing? Does he have a pulse?”

  She nods. “Weak, but yes. We wait. One of you should go down so you can guide the emergency services up here. Better still, we make a stretcher somehow and bring him down to the hotel entrance. The time we save might help.”

  “Then let’s do that.” I race to the dining room and grab a pile of linen tablecloths. Best I can think of. I unfold four of the them, laying the flat on the grass.

  Niall, Da, my cousin Ger and Uncle Joe take the four corners and hold the tablecloths tight while Cliona and I take Enda under the arms and hoist him gently onto it. Cliona and I then take the middle sides to keep him from sagging onto the ground. Slowly we trudge, panting and puffing down the grassy slope, across the guests’ lawn, onto the patio, through the French doors, down the hall. In the distance we hear sirens. An elderly couple stare after us as they emerge from the bar. For once, I don’t care if guests are watching or what they’re thinking.

  We arrive at the main entrance at the same time as the ambulance.

  “We can pay for anything,” I say to the emergency services personnel. “Helicopter if needed, don’t hesitate.”

  “It’s not a matter of money at this stage,” one of the two guys says.

  I look at Cliona. “You saved his life.”

  She rubs her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a sooty streak. “Don’t speak too soon.”

  Is it heinous that at this desperate time, I want to kiss her? I shake the thought and turn to my father. “Hang on there, Da, He’ll be OK.”

  I don’t know that, but I have to say something. He’s white as the tablecloths we used to transport Enda. The linen lies in a crumpled heap on the driveway.

  We all just stand there watching the ambulance drive off.

  “Which hospital?” I ask no-one in particular. “Did anyone get the hospital?”

  “St. Finbarr’s,” answers my Uncle Joe. “But is anyone sober enough to drive?”

  “I am,” Cliona says. “I’ll take you, you and you.” She indicates Da, Niall and myself. “You two can follow in a taxi,” she says to Joe and Ger.

  We follow her to her Audi and pile in. Me in front. Da and Niall in the back.

  It only hits me when we’re actually sitting inside how unutterably strange it is for us all to be here together in her car. It’s a forty-minute drive to St. Finbarr’s. And in that time, not one of us speaks a word. I stare out the window and I watch her face in equal measures. She focuses on the road.

  Not a single word.

  And yet, there’s a whole lot of communication going on. Da is praying silently, his eyes glassy and staring at the back of Cliona’s head. Niall is staring glumly out his window, sometimes shaking his head. I think he’s blaming himself for everything. Cliona’s frowning at the traffic, making sure to stick to the speed limit but pushing it wherever she can. From time to time, her gaze flickers down to my hand that’s resting on my knee. I would do anything to move my hand a few inches and touch her, but now is not the moment.

  As she parks at the A&E entrance to the hospital, she finally looks up at my face. “Want me to come in?”

  “Of course,” I say hoarsely. I glance back at Da and Niall. I’m not looking for their permission —I’m letting them know that everything is going to be different from here on out.

  Each of them nods. They get it

  23

  CLIONA

  I call Deirdre, quickly explain the situation, and ask her to mind Lorcan tonight because I’m staying in the hospital for a while. Somehow, saving the life of this young man is more important to me than anything I’ve ever done in my life, apart from giving birth to my son.

  When I see the three Callaghan men, heads bent, all staring at the ugly peach floor tiles outside the emergency room, my heart stirs. They don’t deserve this misery, especially on the anniversary of losing the
second son. Will the fourth son be gone as well?

  I head back toward the canteen area. There’s no point in me standing there with them. Any chance of them talking to each other is obliterated if I’m standing there as well, and they do need to talk to each other. The stony silence of that car ride was excruciating.

  Fifteen minutes later, as I’m sitting down nursing a badly needed coffee, the father comes up.

  I stiffen. At first, I think he’s going to walk right past me, but then he slows, looks my way, and points to the chair at the small table I’m sitting at. “May I?”

  “Sure,” I say, listlessly.

  Without preamble, he clears his throat and says, “Lady Stephenson, I don’t care what happened in the past. What you did here cancels out what happened with Owen.”

  I frown at him in surprise.

  “If he lives,” I say gloomily.

  “No. Not if he lives. It stands…either way.”

  Tears sparkle in his eyes—his green eyes that are an older, wearier version of Seamus’s. My heart goes out to him so fervently that I can’t help but place my fingers on top of his veined hand. It takes some strength of character to put his grief aside to come and reassure me like this.

  “If I’m going to have you as a daughter, I want one with damn guts like my Rosemary,” he mutters.

  Oh my God, that’s his wife name. What is he saying?

  Before I can ask for clarification, he scrapes the chair back, rises, and heads back the way he came.

  I’m still staring into space when another man comes down the same way. Seamus.

  “I saw that he’d left,” he said, flopping down in the seat his father just vacated. “What’s he been saying to you? Did he give you any mouth, because if he did, I swear I’ll—?”

  I hold up my hand to silence him. “No, Seamus, we’re good.”

  “Good?”

  “Any news on Enda?” I ask, evading the question.

  “We’ve been told the doc is coming out of there very soon.” His voice cracks. “I feel so useless. All we can do…is hope for the best. Come back with me, please.”

  He stretches his palm toward me and I put my hand in it. His fingers clasp over mine, his grip is warm and strong and reassuring. Something tells me I’m never going to let him go.

  24

  SEAMUS

  When the attending doctor—Dr. Harlow, a guy about my age—stands before us and tells us Enda will live to see another day, albeit charred on his back with third degree burns, but alive to tell the tale, something tight inside of me collapses in sheer relief. I squeeze Cliona’s hand really hard.

  When I’ve recovered enough, I glance around to see how the others are doing.

  Da buries his face in his hands.

  Niall thumps his fist against his forehead and rises to hug me. He hugs me really hard. “Thank God,” he says.

  I release him and I go back to Cliona and hug her. “Thank you,” I say, taking her in my arms. This is where she belongs. How could I have let things get so bad that she felt she had to go? Will she ever forgive me? I release her and the warm way she’s looking at me gives me the strength to hope.

  I’m the first to speak to the doctor who’s standing there with a look of professional bemusement on his face. “Thanks, Doctor. Is there anything we can do to help? Anything we need to get or organize?”

  “No, Mr. Callaghan. Your brother needs rest. I suggest you all go home and get some yourselves some rest, too.”

  I suppose he’s thinking we’re an unsavory lot—we stink of smoke and alcohol, our clothes are filthy. Only Cliona looks respectable.

  “Can’t we see him?” Niall asks. He doesn’t like this guy. None of us does.

  “I’m afraid not,” the doctor says firmly. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Let’s go,” Cliona says with gentle intensity. She flashes the doctor a terse smile and leads the way. We trail after her.

  In the car park, we gather at her car while she opens the doors.

  “Well, in you get,” she says.

  “No.” Niall puts up his hand.

  I spin around to him furiously. “Now is not the time to—"

  “Oh, shut up, Seamus,” he says. He flashes Cliona a smile. “Me and Da will grab a taxi back. You two need your space.”

  Da nods.

  Before I can protest, she answers, “Why, that’s very nice of you, Niall.” She turns to me. “OK, in you get, Seamus.”

  I’m speechless. I’m very unused to people making decisions for me, but in this case, I’m finding it very hard to argue with how this is playing out. Wordlessly, I give Niall and my father a wave and slide into her passenger seat.

  “Here’s the plan,” she says. Her voice is trembling softly. “I’m driving to the nearest hotel that’s two kilometers from here and we’re checking in.”

  “You got that right,” I say, clutching onto the dashboard as she swerves out of there.

  25

  CLIONA

  My plan to grab the nearest hotel was inspired, even if I say so myself. Actually, it wasn’t the very next hotel as that was only a four star and Mr. Fussy said he preferred something a little more upmarket. His exact words were, “Fuck no, nothing under a five star.”

  “Which is rich, considering your castle is only what, four and a half?” I ask him as we totter up the plushy carpeted stairs to the third floor of the Radisson where our suite is. The receptionist recognized Seamus as one of Cork’s leading hoteliers and upgraded him before we could say “King-sized bed, please.”

  “Wrong,” he says. “We got accredited last week. Five big shiny ones in your face.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say warmly. “Congratulations. No one deserves it more.”

  I giggle. I’m lightheaded with relief, joy and a wicked feeling of being carefree for the night. Deidre’s looking after Lorcan. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Niall has promised Seamus he’ll look after the hotel all day, working overtime. Da Callaghan will help too.

  I slide the card key into the door and open it to reveal an amazing suite. I don’t want to go overboard praising it because I know Seamus will start over analyzing everything. So, I simply walk to the mini-fridge and pour two glasses of water that we so desperately need.

  We chug the water, drops spilling down our chins. Then Seamus crooks his arm and pulls me into him, hard.

  “I need you now,” he growls, cupping his hands around my neck.

  “The feeling,” I say, pulling his blazer lapels, “is mutual.”

  We tear the clothes off the other, working in frenzy. There’s no finesse, no teasing, just a desperation to get naked before the other.

  When he’s standing there before me in all his muscular glory, I sigh and kiss his collarbone. I’m so overcome with passion that I hardly know where to start. His smell of smoke, sweat and whiskey is turning me on.

  He seems to know exactly where to start. His mouth crashes down on mine, his hands cup my breasts, slide down my waist, encircle my butt cheeks, and slide between my legs.

  “I need to shower though,” he says.

  “No. You’re fine,” I grunt. I want him like this—hard sweaty and real.

  “Then…to the bed,” he says, walking me backward. The backs of my calves hit the bed and I flop onto the bouncy mattress, sinking into the luxurious cotton of the top sheet. He leans over me and licks a slow trail from my collarbone, down between my breasts, down over my navel, all the way to my pussy that’s waiting for him to come back. It’s been waiting for weeks.

  “Do you have—?”

  “Protection?” I ask. “Yes, in my handbag.”

  He slides me a somewhat hurt look. “You been needing it lately’”

  I could torment him, but I won’t. Tonight’s too precious, and too urgent, for any of that. “Don’t worry. I just had them from the last time I met you,” I say. “Now stop talking.”

  He smirks, sheaths himself, and comes back to me, his beautiful cock rigid and standing to attention. I
gasp, remembering that feeling of him taking me. I scoot back further on the bed. He kneels between my thighs and spreads them wide so that my legs dangle over the side and the foot of the bed. Diving down, he kisses my intimate region tenderly and works me into a trembling state of need with his tongue.

  I lift my head up and reach for his shoulders, my hands feeling small against the big thick muscles. How can a man be so powerful and yet so gentle in the way he treats me? It’s all in knowing when and how to use that strength and Seamus Callaghan simply has that instinct.

  “Oh God,” I moan as he fills me with his cock. I feel him throbbing inside me, thick and warm. He begins to thrust in a very pleasing rhythm, so slow and in tune with what I want. It’s sheer pleasure, being rocked by him from the inside, my every breath ending in a whimper.

  I’m beyond caring what I look, or sound, or smell like and he is too as our bodies merge and slide against each other. We grasp and pull and caress and suck and bite. He pushes me to orgasm quickly. Then I sit on top of him and ride him until he groans out his climax. Nothing in this world is better than watching his face, normally so controlled, squeeze in the anguish and then fill with the serenity of sweet release. Nothing.

  When we’re both spent and utterly sated, he opens a bottle of Champagne while I loll on the bed, watching him.

  It’s 3 a.m. and Cork city is quiet below us. We giggle as we pour two glasses and clink them. We’re still butt naked.

  “Despite everything, this is the best night of my life,” I tell him.

  “Mine too,” he agrees. “I mean, I do feel terrible for poor Enda, I’m sure he’s in such pain, but sometimes life throws these things together and you just have to learn to separate and enjoy the parts that are good for us.”